In Time We See

In time we see

The author of Ecclesiastes

Is right

There is nothing new under the sun

All is day

All is night

What man contrives with gifted breath

For his allotted hours

Is nothing more than life to death

Beneath temporal bowers

We would be wise to honor then

This sagacious advice

To remember the Creator when

Evil has not enticed

The heart from God to lusts of men

And foolish sacrifice

...someday

We will bow before God to explain

Our loves and lusts to Him
Repentance then will be in vain

As we recall what could have been

More important than this wise truth

To remember our Creator

In the days of our youth…

Janet Martin

Incompletions...

Sometimes it bothers me

To realize

That I know too much

About too little

Silver drops of time expand

And knowledge inflates

The mind

With nothing

Wisdom; the wise covet it and learn

But oh, I cannot rush wisdom

And I know too little

About too much

There are things I know too much of

That I desire to know nothing about

and there are things I know nothing of

That I would desire to know  much about

© Janet Martin

Invisible Minstrels

Oft for these wee minstrels I yearn

From winter’s lusty fire

Tonight the lyricists return

To strum the hidden lyre

On lush and sultry summer-stage

A resonant vibration

Of choristers tune brush and sage

And sundry vegetation

In silver notes their anthems swell

Above the raven spire

Surely the starlit pinnacle

Exalts this humble choir

An obscure throng of summer-song

A comely dispensation

Of unfeigned praise; madrigal raised

To Author of creation

Oft for these wee minstrels I yearn

From winter’s frozen bowers

For harmony of green-leaf fern

And cricket-murmured hours

Tonight their salutation spills

In pure, fervent devotion

The cricket-song of summer fills

Deep midnight’s lambent ocean

© Janet Martin

Yes, they are back!

Kind Keeper of the Humble...

To Thee I cling

My Lord and King

Accept my frail devotion

Thou, Being of

Perfected love

Who rules the heaving ocean

Who probes the earth and stirs the seed

Who orchestrates each hour

Four season worth of toil and need

We plant, we till, we gather

And should the howling tempest seethe

And should my bulwark crumble

Still Thou art near, above, beneath

Kind Keeper of the humble

To Thee I cling

My Lord and King

My Hope and my Salvation

Thou Being of

Perfected love

And Ruler of creation

© Janet Martin

Of Mortal Bliss

Come darling, plant that kiss right here...or here

Love is not a ball and chain

Passion swells for rich or poor

None can claim its rare refrain

Caviar or grittle-cake for tea

With you, either one is grand

Agression and humility

In love, my love, walk hand in hand

Darling, thought triggers reckless wanting

Reckless wanting drives me mad

The flicks of wild and whispered taunting

Rage against the miles that spread…

…twixt amorous and easy laughter

Twixt the loss of gravity

Before the tender ever after

Of love’s finest ecstasy

Spray the world with rainbow glitter

Crack the flask of mortal bliss

None relishes a placid quitter

Oh darling, come and plant that kiss…

J~

The Sunday Whirl

The Seemingly Impossible

It would be easy to be buried

By the mountains which loom about

The mountains of dirty laundry

Of longing, of fear, of doubt

There are mountains of work and worry

Of bills needing to be paid

Of broken, waiting for repair

Or healing; there are mountains we’ve made…

But then, suddenly I remember

The words Jesus spoke tenderly

‘If we have faith, as a mustard seed

Mountains can be moved to the sea’

So I cling to that grand Invisible

I cannot touch or feel

And by it the seemingly impossible

Becomes conceivably real

© Janet Martin

Of Phantom Glass

The fabric of midnight melts away

How subtle its blanket slips

The silk-smooth edge of another day

Spills from Time’s tempestuous lips

The deepened shroud above the cloud

Pales from its onyx hue

Grace lights dawn’s wick, a candlestick

Of periwinkle-blue

And I love you…

The phantom glass through which smiles pass

And sundry tears and fears

Will not recast the ocean vast

Of moments shaping years

We touch our feet to mystery

To tread its tide anew

Folding what is to history

‘I did’ claims our ‘I do’

…and our ‘I love you’

The tick of clocks and unhinged locks

Cannot refund one hour

The backdrop of longing and love

Courses from vaulted bower

I dare not waste the touch, the taste

Of moments trickling through

Mercy’s embrace of wondrous grace

From heaven's avenue

For I love you…

Forever

If there is never

Anything more I do

It will be a life well lived

Because I love you

J~

Mercy-drops

…and then we’re surprised and awed and amazed

Humbly we watch it pour

As mercy-drops fall in torrential grace

Across earth’s dust-ridden floor

In dumb-founded gratitude tears mix with rain

And all I can think to do

Is lift up my voice in devotion to Him

Crying thank-you, thank-you, thank-you

© Janet Martin

With the humidity came an unexpected down-pour…down the road a couple miles it remained dry!

I think I heard the corn rows gulping!

Thank-you for the prayers TUG. I told hubby it must be those prayers all the way from Spain;))

Something Old, Something New

Somewhere on this little ball

Of dirt and hurt and wondering

A poet had a thought and scrawled

The letters to his pondering

…and while life's highway twists and turns

The words remain now century-worn

To remind us what we learn

Are new old poems being born

Beneath the sun is nothing new

Of flood or drought, of joy or pain

A song, a poem, a dance or two

And we return to earth again

…but somewhere on this little ball

Of dirt and hurt and wondering

We ought to take the time to scrawl

The poems of our pondering…

© Janet Martin

Over and over I have whispered thank-you to the poets of old.

Another Kind of Shadow-Tango...

 Image Source: fineartamerica.com

There is a shadow-tango

of another kind

when a memory, soft and tender

suddenly seizes the mind

and sweeps our passion

across the floor

of a ballroom that was

but is no more

J~

...as I wrote the previous tango poem another sort of tango gripped me...

Save the last dance for me... Michael Buble`

Perhaps...

 Image Source: labellecuisine.com

Perhaps we have grown too accustomed to

A little wheat in our bowl

A little wine in our glass

Bread on the table, not merely the crumbs

And every so often the rains as they pass

Perhaps we have grown too accustomed to

Filling our mouths

Instead of our souls

And we need to be reminded Who

Loves us beyond our heaping bowls

Perhaps we’ve come to expect His gifts

And don’t really offer

The thanks that we should

And as the fields crease, hardened and parched

Will our worship cease or will we cry God is good?

Perhaps true thanksgiving springs not from full hands

But in the drought

As we pray and we plead

Perhaps our praise is anemic and bland

As we eat, never sifting our need from our greed

Perhaps we have grown too accustomed to

Eating and sleeping

With unbowed head

And hearts that never fully pause

To thank the Lord for daily bread

© Janet Martin

Then Jesus declared, "I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will never go hungry, and he who believes in me will never be thirsty. John 6:35

The need for rain is foremost in many minds right now...